


ode to

by batwngs



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Damian is there briefly, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Other, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 04:15:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18843442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/batwngs/pseuds/batwngs
Summary: summary:art takes us out and forces us away from our daily, quotidian thoughts, the burden of being human, evoking a different feeling—a different story—for each person.preview:he decides to walk around the museum, aimlessly hoping that something, if anything, would catch his eye. his feet navigate him through the quiet halls of artwork dated from the origins of humanity to modernity. he remembers these halls, although he desperately wishes to forget.





	ode to

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by john keats' poem, _ode on a grecian urn_

He’s not sure how or why he ended up here. It’s as if his body wanted to return home, but his mind reluctantly opposed. The stairs that stood in front of him were daunting, the pillars of the Museum of Antiquities creating this façade of a temple, as if something holy resided inside.

He decides to enter and walk around the museum, aimlessly hoping that something, if anything, would catch his eye. His feet navigate him through the quiet halls of artwork dated from the origins of humanity to modernity. He remembers these halls, although he desperately wishes to forget. He walks unfocused through stolen and misplaced time, his thoughts and memories repeating phrases, cries, laughs, stories, as if it’s the only thing it can do. Everything around him is a blur, pristine white mixing with smudges of earthy browns and greens, occasional screaming reds, masses of black cutting the white. 

His feet led him to a quiet room, where time came to a halt. There stood a vase in the middle of the room, held up high atop a white marble pillar. The vase dominated the room, as if this piece was worth all the attention in the world. It was a black hole, drawing in unsuspecting hearts and burning eyes, claiming their thoughts and time. “Grecian Urn, c. 600-450 BCE, Ceramic” read the label.

What flowery tale does this urn wish to recite? This ancient historian who knows silence and time as well as leaves know their trees, what memory does it wish to bring forth? With deities or mortals, gods or men, what legend does this leafy urn desire so wholeheartedly to share? What story haunts the urn’s captivating shape?

_Dick was looking around frantically for Damian. He had just looked away for an instant, returning to find Damian was not by his side. Dick knew the 10-year-old was wandering the museum’s halls somewhere. The pristine halls were flooded with people from all over the world, making it harder for Dick to spot his brother. He was met with similar sights at every angle he scanned: framed and faded paintings mixed with absorbed and boisterous guests. Dick tried to maneuver his way through the marble-floored halls, but new people of varying ages would appear to challenge his path. No matter which direction he turned, he couldn’t find a boy with a sketchbook in hand. With the movements and streaks of dull greens and ivory leaving a bitter taste of worry in his mouth, he turned away to continue his search elsewhere, abruptly crashing into a figure._

_“I’m so sorry, are you okay?” Dick hastily apologized, his hands rushing to their shoulders in order to stop them before they fell._

_“I’m alright, thank you,” said the enthralling stranger. Dick got a good look at them—their eyes guarding all the world’s secrets within them. He wanted to hold them there and study this statue who turned human. Enticing and ancient, it was as if one of Michelangelo’s sculptures was living and breathing right before his very eyes._

_Dick didn’t realize he was still holding their statuesque shoulders, only snapping out of this trance when they awkwardly coughed. He quickly removed his hand from their shoulder. The stranger with curiosity laced in their voice questioned, “Are you alright?”_

_“Yeah, I’m just looking for my little brother,” responded Dick, the anxiety reclaiming his mind. ___

____

____

_“We’ll find him, don’t worry,” [Y/N] reassured, “By the way, my name’s [Y/N].”_

_“Richard, but you can call me Dick.”_

_They spent some time walking through the exhibitions, walking through history and art. Colors of paintings, sculptures, and people all blended together into a dim haze. He could only care to focus on [Y/N]. Just as bystanders and onlookers of art would study a piece, pointing out the intricate details that made it whole, Dick was compelled to a similar fate; to stare, to study, to memorize each subtle and elegant feature of their face. That’s all he could do when met with art. Nothing in each room—the people that didn’t resemble Damian and the museum’s art displayed with high importance—could compare to the art that stood beside him._

_After some time of wandering through several exhibits, Dick and [Y/N] stopped in front of an elegant black dress accompanied with a veil. [Y/N] had a very contemplative look woven into their features, analyzing the old fabrics. Dick attempted to mimic their look of ponder, his hand moving to rest under his chin. “I wonder what story she had to tell,” mused [Y/N], their eyes not leaving the delicately sewn dress._

_Dick proposed, “Maybe she was going to a funeral of a friend.”_

_“I think she was mourning her lover,” [Y/N] suggested. “How do you think they died? The lover that is.”_

_“They died doing something brave. Or they were like a valiant hero who helped everyone. They died a hero, I guess.”_

_“They died so their lover could live.”_

_“Maybe the lover is alive right now, in our time.”_

_“That honestly sounds worse,” [Y/N] commented morosely as they walked away, observing the other dresses on display. “To live in another time without your lover, possibly not even remembering them. They could come and see that very dress, but they won’t know she wore it for them centuries ago._

_“It’s tragic, really, to live without your lover. To live in a strange world and your name be lost.”_

_“I hope they find each other soon,” Dick added. “She’s been waiting for a long time.”_

_From there, Dick and [Y/N] walked towards the Ancient Middle Eastern exhibition. Upon entering the wing, Dick noticed a small child standing in front of a funerary relief, sketchbook in hand. Damian stood as he gently sketched the details of the ancient relief onto his paper. Dick turned to face [Y/N]._

_Pointing to towards Damian, Dick said, “Found him.” He didn’t want to go over to Damian right away, unwilling to acknowledge his walk through the lively museum with [Y/N] has come to a close. He wanted to hear their thoughts on various subjects that decorated every corner of the building._

_“I should probably get going then, it was nice spending time with you,” [Y/N] stated._

_“I would love to talk to you again, if that’s alright with you,” Dick started, heat creeping up on his neck._

_“I would love that.”_

_“Great.”_

_“Great,” chuckled [Y/N], a smile gracing both of their faces. Dick’s hand moved to rest his neck, looking down at his feet hoping to hide his embarrassment and excitement from [Y/N], who stood looking around the room as they bit their lips._

_[Y/N] breaks the growing air of embarrassment between the two, “I’ll see you around, hero.” They brush past Dick, their shoulders purposefully grazing his as they made their way towards the neighboring exhibit. Dick could only stare in awe as his face beamed with hope and excitement._

There were other images drawn onto the sides of the urn, stories stretching around the shape of the ancient vase. One story is never enough, for every story could hold countless others. Dick stared at the frenzy of the first image. Either a celebration or a struggle, who is to know for sure?

Dick then shifted his focus to the other image that resided on the urn, wonder and question written on his face. There lay a pipe player with their lover. Playing sweet unheard melodies, those notes dancing on the ears of their lover. A never-ending song in a never-ending summer with a never-ending love. To remain frozen amongst the green grass with your lover, never aging and never leaving, continuously waiting for the flowers to bloom.

_[Y/N]’s hand gently stroked Dick’s, lightly playing with his palm as the two of them laid on the grass, the intensity of the summer’s heat breaking away under [Y/N]’s cool touch. Sitting under the tree that looked out towards the glistening lake, the two laid blissfully in each other’s silence. Heartbeats slowing into one, the birds danced around in the blue sea of the sky; the scene unbearably idyllic and picturesque, reminding him of paintings that have tried to capture this unmatched beauty of the world with his lover in it. Looking up at the sky filled with luscious clouds, he couldn’t help but think about how unbelievably lucky he was, to have fallen for someone so divine and for them to equally want to watch the sun rise and set with him. Passing gentle smiles and glances at one another for so long to end up in each other’s arms. [Y/N] began to hum a soft tune lulling him into a peaceful state of mind—somewhere in-between slumber and consciousness, for he didn’t want to sleep and miss out on this rare quiet and simple moment under the sun. The wind’s gentle verse mixed melodiously with [Y/N]’s soft humming, what more could Dick ask for?_

_He doesn’t remember how long they laid under the tree—perhaps hours or years, long enough for them to become flowers. Vibrant purples and yellows growing from the earth around them, the world singing a harmonious song just for their ears. It felt like a dream, one that he wished would never end. Laying together, hand in hand, Dick could only come to describe it as home._

How happy the lovers must be! Embellished with golden rays of sunlight, to live forever and to never know the end of a day. Although the pipe’s sweet melody will never be heard, to be forever new, and the trees will never be bare, at least our bold lover will always be with theirs. Even if the pipe player is forever doomed to just be with, never to know the feel of a gentle touch or a world-shattering kiss. 

There was a third image etched and painted onto the skin of the urn. What little town, perhaps by the sea or in the mountains, is left deserted by its people? The little town is empty, all its civilians at this green altar for some occasion: a sacrifice, a funeral? A mysterious priest leads the people and a cow dressed in delicate garlands away from the one place they all know to be home. What warmth does the green altar have compared to the little town? The people are forever trapped at this altar, this grave, leaving the town forever empty; no soul could ever return, a story left untold remains at the town’s entrance. With each step away from the now cold, barren city, the people recite ceremoniously “Do not grieve, do not grieve.” Why shouldn’t the town grieve? For its desolate streets will forever ring in silence with no soul to remind the people that this town, too, is a home.

_Distant tears and birds chirping violently in the trees filled his ears, cicadas singing loud in the summer heat. Wreaths of flowers of vibrant yellow and purple rested beside the oak casket. The summer sun burning its rays on sunshine onto his skin, pelting him as if it were rain. Dick could only blankly stare at the cold wood under the shade of a tree. The world with its intense and loud ringing sounds fell to an uncomfortable silence, his mind unable to think of anything coherent besides the words “why did your story end?”_

_People who he could barely make out from the fog his mind was in would come up to him one by one, offering their condolences and shared grief. Even with hordes of people crowding him, he felt alone. He was alone._

_After everyone left the funeral, he stood there, by his lover’s fresh grave. He’s not sure how long he stood there, questioning himself and reality, trying to make sense of the world. The green of his surroundings burned bright in his blurred and empty vision. Dick didn’t know what to do or where to go, so he walked. He walked on and on and on. His feet eventually brining him into familiar pristine halls decorated with time; he walked on unaware that he returned to his empty city, only to be dragged away by an ancient vase decorated heavily with an insulting leafy story._

Why must this urn mock him with its immortality? Why must this urn taunt him with images of love frozen in a blissful time that cannot be his? Why must this beautifully bitter urn tease him with a life he cannot live, a love he cannot keep? Why must this urn, this ancient ceramic, torture him so? This eternal urn that sits on its throne at the center, why must it goad his broken heart? Why must he live in a world where time is unforgiving, unbending, unyielding? Why must he be condemned to a fleeting life and fragile heart?

He was envious of it. Envious of the way the urn stood only to mock his humanity and being. On this silent urn, its beautiful figures would never age, fall ill, experience heartbreak. To be continuously basked in summer’s light with sweet melodies never heard filling the loving air, to remain picturesque in your lover’s arms for eternity. Dick desired deeply to break this heavily decorated urn. To grab the urn where it stood so proudly and throw it against the wall. To have an echoing shatter scream throughout the building. To tear apart at its sylvian skin. To sacrifice its people. To sour its unchanging melodies. To destroy its gods, its men, its lovers, its city, its world, until nothing eternal remained. To have remnants of a story bleed vibrantly on the marble floor. To have its antique shape crack and moan underneath his shoes. Maybe then the urn will understand his pain, be able to finally understand its jeering immortality and his lack thereof. Maybe then the urn will understand how deep its story cut, how many of its embellished shards became ancient kniv—

“Hey kid,” a wizened voice calls out, “the museum is closing.”

The museum’s janitor gently places his hand on Dick’s shoulder, ushering him away from the hypnotic urn and his thoughts.

The janitor walks Dick out of the museum, leaving the boy on the street with the summer sun hanging low against the blood orange sky. Dick glances back at the museum one last time, recalling everything he could from the exhibits of his mind. Perhaps the urn is cursed: cursed to a fate of existing without really ever knowing love. At least he tasted love’s fleeting sweetness; at least he lives whereas the urn exists. It’s better to have loved and been loved than remain in frozen in a moment. That is the truth the beautiful, yet terrible, urn speaks.

And so, he walks away into the dawning black and blue night with a broken heart in his hands and memories of a time he once lived.

**Author's Note:**

> this story and others can be found on my tumblr: batwngs
> 
> if there are any formatting errors please let me know! comments and constructive criticism is greatly appreciated!


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